The Captain & The Breakable Heart
by WhalesForSale
Summary: The flicker of surprise that crossed Natasha's face had broken his heart, just a little. Eventual Steve/Natasha paring-Minor character death. Post CATWS: minor spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

**_This will have more chapters to come with eventual Steve/Natasha. Let me know what you think or what you want to see more of! If you like, read my other fic as well!_**

_**Thanks for reading,**_  
_**Whales**_

* * *

**The Captain &amp; The Breakable Heart  
**by WhalesForSale

_I would now._

The flicker of surprise that crossed Natasha's face had broken his heart, just a little. Steve wondered not for the first or last time, what happened in Natasha's past to make her feel so ashamed and untrustworthy.

Eight months had passed since the destruction of S.H.I.E.L.D. and now he and Natasha sat side by side on a bullet train headed for Beijing. From there they would take a small military jet back to the States. After that, would be the funeral.

Peggy was gone and Natasha was taking him home.

* * *

They had sent her to find him, but how they found _her_ was a mystery. It didn't surprise him that they'd sent Natasha to seek him out. Besides Sam, she was his closest ally…a friend, even. He was humbled and grateful for Sam's presence and friendship, but there was a bond that existed with between him and Natasha that spoke of their mutual past, fights for freedom, ghosts and monsters in the dark.

What did surprise Steve was the sadness in her eyes, her sorrow for him. The rising sun had lit the golden halo of Natasha's hair as she stood waiting for him and Sam in the courtyard of the small temp house they were using in Qinghai. Chickens scurried underfoot, goats bleated to each other across the tea fields, and there stood Natasha—morning mist floating around her black boots in wisps, the dew settling on her brow and the sun striking her like a goddess borne of fire.

For a moment Steve's breath was taken away. So powerful was the image that his fingers twitched as he committed the moment to memory—a moment he planned to sketch later. Sam walked up beside him.

"Tasha?! What the hell—girl how did you—man, you're alright! But how did you-?"

Natasha's eyes never left Steve's. There was a question and there was an answer between them.

"Steve…"

Understanding struck him deep in his chest. It felt like a gong reverberating from the center of his being, racing up his spine, spreading outward to his limbs and bursting forth from his head. The internal resonance momentarily deafened him.

"Peggy?" he managed.

"I'm so sorry Steve."

_Please don't say it, please don't say it, please don't—_

"She's gone," Natasha whispered. Her hand was flat against his chest. He didn't remember her moving. Her green eyes were reflective pools of grief for him. He didn't want it.

Steve took a step back from her. "Why are you here, Nat?"

"I've come, I've come to take you home."

Steve nodded and turned away, moving back into the house. Emptiness swept in and filled him to the brim.

* * *

The train ride was quiet. Natasha didn't speak; there was nothing to say. Anyway she knew he needed silence and she acquiesced. Though he stared out the window he wasn't watching the scene of landscape that flitted by, but instead the memories that spread out before him like the sea. A sea so vast and fathomless that it would swallow the world and him besides. That was his grief and he longed for it to take him.

Natasha took him to a hotel suite near the Beijing airport for the night. The jet wouldn't leave for another 16 hours and she didn't see fit to have them wait at the base. Steve didn't care.

Natasha set their bags down next to sofa where he sat staring out at the city below. "Do you want to eat?" He shook his head and Natasha nodded, already having known the answer.

She sat next to him on the armrest and was silent for a few minutes. "If you want me to," she paused and looked down briefly before looking him in the eye, "I can help take some of the pain away. Not forever, but at least for a little while."

Steve knew what she was offering and was shocked that he wasn't offended by it. The compassion in her eyes revealed the purest desire to ameliorate his despair, and it moved him deeply. "Tasha," he whispered. He cupped her cheek and ran his thumb across her chin. "Natasha," he whispered again. He felt his throat tighten and the words wouldn't come. She looked at him questioningly, her lips parting to speak. He shook his head and pulled her into his lap.

He swallowed and when he spoke his voice was rough with emotion. "Thank you, but I don't want to use you that way. You-you mean more to me than that, and you deserve more than that from me."

The flicker of surprise that crossed Natasha's face broke his heart, just a little…again. Her eyes grew bright and she looked away from him then, but not in shame. Perhaps this was the first time that she felt valued by a man beyond her body. A small part of him was happy that he was the one to do it. When she looked back up there was wetness on her eyelashes.

"I was sitting on the train, thinking about her…Peggy, and telling myself that I should be ashamed because I couldn't cry. She's the love—she _was_ the love of my life and I can't shed a goddamned tear for her. I feel like…I feel like…" he fumbled, unable to explain.

"Like every emotion wants to come out at once, and you can't decide which one to let out first. And the hurt is so deep that crying seems useless because it can never make it go away," she offered.

Steve stared at her, stunned. "You lost someone." It wasn't a question, but she nodded anyway.

Steve sighed and closed his eyes. "My heart hurts," he whispered.

"I know," she murmured and caressed his cheek. "Let it hurt, let it break." He pulled her to him and buried his face in her neck. She stroked his hair and the nape of his neck, soothing.

They stayed that way for a long time. Steve felt her breath even out and knew that she had fallen asleep—it had already been a long day for her. She startled when he stood with her cradled in his arms. "Steve? I'm sorry, I didn't—I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"Shhh," he hushed and carried her into the bedroom. He sat her gently on the end of the bed and began tossing away the overstuffed pillows and pulling back the covers. Natasha raised her eyebrow but he held up a hand. "You've been up for what? 36 hours?"

"I've been up for longer," she countered, her cheeks coloring a bit. "I can make some coffee and we can talk if you want. I—"

"Nat, you're tired and so am I. Besides, I don't know if I _can_ talk yet, and plus I could use a cuddle."

Her lips quirked. "Did Captain America just say _cuddle_?" Steve chucked a pillow at her, which she caught, and waved a hand over the bed as if to say _you comin' or what?_

Natasha pulled off her shoes and unabashedly stripped down to her tank top and underwear. Steve did likewise. It wasn't erotic. They'd been partners for two years and had seen each other in various stages of undress more times than he could remember. He thought it was strange that he sometimes felt utterly comfortable around her and at other times she was still like a perfect stranger.

Natasha turned off the lights before slipping in next to him. The city lights leaked in through the curtains and diffused the room in a soft, amber glow. As usual the bed was too soft and he shifted around a bit, trying to get comfortable. She propped herself up on an elbow and looked at him. Her green eyes held so many secrets.

"Tell me something that I don't know about you," he prompted. "It can be whatever you want." Natasha gave him one of her half smiles and paused while she thought.

"Okay," she said. "When I was a little girl, with the Red Room, one of many things they trained me in was ballet. I loved, _loved_ dancing. I used to watch old footage of Mikhail Baryshnikov, totally had a crush on him, and I would make believe that I was his ballerina. He danced like a god, so perfect, and everybody in Russia loved him—before he defected, anyway.

I worked hard not just because they made us, but because I wanted to be perfect too. In my little mind I thought you know, this is my way out! I convinced myself that if my grand jeté was higher, my pirouette smoother, or if my feet could move fast enough, then they would let me go and be a dancer. And not do…what they did to us." Natasha paused, frowning at the bed. A tear dashed across the bridge of her nose and she smiled wanly at him. "So something you don't know about me Steve is that every day that I wake up, I wish they'd just forgotten about me and let me dance."

Natasha hastily wiped her eyes and turned away from him. "Sorry, that was stupid I should have said something happy."

Steve shook his head. "No, that was perfect," he said softly. "Come here, Nat."

"Sorry. I shouldn't be crying." Natasha swung her legs off the bed and he could see that she was struggling hard to control her emotions.

Steve scooted to her side of the bed and hooked an arm around her waist. She was so much smaller than she seemed in normal life and he had no problem pulling her back into bed. She opened her mouth to protest, but all that came out was a stifled sob. Steve held her tight against his chest and molded his body around hers.

"You were just a little girl, Nat. It's okay to cry for her." And she did. For the most part she wept silently, her small frame quaking in his arms. After a while her breathing evened out and he thought she'd fallen asleep until she squeezed his hand.

Natasha rolled over to face him. Her face was red and blotchy, her makeup gone. But she had never seemed more beautiful to him as she did now. "I…I'm…"

"You don't have to say anything," he said. "This is what friends do."

She stared at him with an unreadable expression on her face. After a moment she kissed the bridge of his nose. "You're a rare person, Steve Rogers," she whispered and gave him a tentative smile. "I-I'm glad you're my friend."

"Me too."

Natasha nestled her head against the crook of his shoulder and soon fell asleep. He could guess that not many people had held her in her life. But then not many people had held him either. They were both waifs in the world; out of time and out of place. It had made them both tougher, but also brittle. Everyone assumed that Captain Steve Rogers was indestructible, but even the strongest metal needed to have some bend in it or it would break.

The truth was, when he saw Natasha standing in that morning sun, his heart had shattered.


	2. Chapter 2

Putting out two new, small chapters at once. Thanks for the reviews :)

* * *

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Natasha had followed him without question when he left the burial service. He was striding away before Peggy's casket was lowered into the ground, unable to bear the thought of shovels entombing what remained of his past. Natasha stalked him silently, not saying a word when he glanced down in dull surprise to see her standing at his side as he waited for the sedan.

She laid a hand on his wrist and squeezed, and it was enough.

Inside, his old apartment was a ruin. The new, many-legged tenants had strung their cobwebs in corners and across doorways, catching him in the face at every turn. He could almost feel their hateful eyes glaring him as he reclaimed his territory. He hadn't been back here since he'd left with Sam ages ago. Everywhere he looked, a thick layer of dust covered what seemed to be the untidy leavings of a man in a hurry. Natasha hadn't come in with him. He hadn't wanted her to follow, he was too ravaged for any company save his own. She'd leaned over to press a soft kiss on his cheek and whispered warmly next to his ear, "I'll be around." He watched the sedan bear her on to a destination unknown. He hadn't thought to ask what she meant or where she was going. He hadn't replied or even told her goodbye. Somehow he couldn't muster up enough emotion to care about that just now.

Steve sank down into the easy chair with a sigh. This apartment wasn't his, not really. It had never belonged to him, never felt like his home. It had a cold, cramped feel it to it, like something long buried. Whose life was this, anyway? Not his, but no, he didn't really know anymore.

_Buried_. He sank down and tried not to think about anything.

* * *

He'd left without saying goodbye and Natasha didn't feel any sort of way about it. It was the way of men like him. Strong, silent, and lone suffering. In honesty she was the same. Never one to lash out or weep, she would find a dark corner to curl herself into a ball and quietly wait for the pain to recede.

_Except for Alexi_, she reminded herself. _You went mad_. And she had gone mad. Most of her kills from that time were blanketed in a white haze of foggy memory. She wasn't sure if she'd suffered a trauma that affected her memory or if she'd intentionally blocked access to it. She knew what the real answer was of course, but some truths are better left in the cold ground.


	3. Chapter 3

Putting out two new, small chapters at once. Thanks for the reviews :)

* * *

6 MONTHS LATER

"So you want me to meet you in an abandoned building," Natasha drawled dryly through the speaker.

"It's not abandoned," Steve corrected.

"No, no you're right. The rats that live in the walls would be _highly_ offended if they were overlooked."

Steve chuckled, "Then maybe you should bring them a peace offering, like hot coffee."

"Rats hate coffee, but they do enjoy a good cup of black tea," she said with a hint of wistfulness.

"And chocolate croissants, from Starbucks?"

"Why not? Rats love chocolate."

"So you'll be there?"

"Only if you promise to shave. I can hear you scratching through the phone, Sasquatch."

Steve immediately stopped raking his fingers through his itchy beard and grinned. "Roger that," he said and ended the call. 

* * *

"…wall to wall, floor to ceiling windows. The mounts are still originals, which is rare in this neighborhood. You don't see that anywhere anymore, really. And the glass is double-paned and hand blown. That's what makes them so special. You can see how the light reacts to this type of… this type of um…"

Steve stopped admiring the windows and turned towards his realtor who'd stopped speaking in mid-sentence. "Amy?"

Amy, a confidant and striking looking woman in her mid-thirties, half smiled and frowned at him in a distracted sort of way. "Sorry," she said, waving her hand in a vague gesture of apology, "there's just uh, well it looks like someone's been in here. I was under the impression that the owner had given us the only set of keys."

Steve tensed in alarm. "What do you mean?" he asked, taking a step towards her.

"Someone's been in here very recently. I just showed the place yesterday and that wasn't there." Amy cleared her throat and pointed to two cups of coffee sitting on a low window sill. Steve crouched and touched one the cups—it was hot and weighted with liquid. He hung his head for a moment and snorted against his chest.

Again Amy cleared her throat. "I'm so sorry Steve. This has never happened before. We always make sure that our homes are locked and secure. I had no idea—"

"You take cream and sugar?" he asked and extended one of the cups to her.

She took the cup by reflex. "What? I don't—oh my God, it's still hot! Wait, are they still in here?"

"Oh yeah, they're definitely here. Nat!" he called.

She was so good at being stealthy that he was only able to pick out her soft footfalls by virtue of his enhanced hearing. Steve looked directly above them up at the loft space and saw her emerge from the shadows. She took a delicate sip from her own cup, a telltale tea string draped over the lip, and leaned against the railing.

"Good morning," Steve greeted.

A pleased smile hovered at the corners of Natasha's mouth. "Hello."

"Hi," Amy mumbled before moving a step closer to Steve.

* * *

Their feet dangled carelessly over the 15-foot drop, their arms resting on the railing. Natasha tore off another small chunk of the chocolate croissant and popped it in her mouth. Steve licked flaky bits of pastry and smears of chocolate off the tips of his fingers with slow remorse. He'd never admit it out loud, but he was a sucker for sweets. France had utterly ruined his willpower during the War.

"You'll wanna eat this one a little more slowly, Cap. It's the last one," Natasha said and rooted around in her bag until she pulled out another pink paper bag and handed it to him. He smiled sheepishly at her and took it.

"Thanks," he said and imitated her by tearing off a small corner instead of shoving half of into his mouth like he really wanted to.

"So you gonna buy this place?" she asked.

Steve shrugged. "I dunno yet. What do you think?"

They sat side by side on the edge of the loft overlooking the kitchen and living area below. She glanced at him and chewed on the corner of her lip. He liked it when she did that. "It's big," she said.

"Yeah, and…?" he urged.

"There's three ways to exit besides the front door, so that's a plus."

Steve snorted a laugh. Leave it to the assassin to immediately find an alternate way out. "Mmhm…"

"And Amy seems nice. Bet it'll make her real happy if you buy it."

"Nat," he growled. He didn't have to look at her to know she was restraining a small, impish smile.

"It's airy without being cold, great light for your paintings, you know. Um, there's a chef's kitchen—what not to love about that except that you can't cook worth a damn. Good sized loft up here, could make it a library or something. Large bedroom on the main floor and two full bathrooms." She shrugged, "Sounds like a plan to me, but then I'm not the one signing on the dotted line."

"Yeah, need to think about it more." he sighed. Buying anything would be a huge decision. It would mean accepting his fate and finally laying down permanent roots.

"No you don't."

Steve eyed her with a small frown. "No?"

"No more thought. With the big things, the stuff that matters, you know. You know immediately. If it requires more thought, then it's the wrong choice. You already know everything you need to. So make a decision."

He nodded at that because she was right. They lapsed into a brief silence and then Natasha lightly touched his leg. "Glad you're back, Steve. It's good to see you."

He smiled at her again. He hadn't had a reason to smile in what seemed to be a very long time. "Yeah, you too."


	4. Chapter 4

"Love what you've done with the place."

Steve looked over his shoulder and smiled. Natasha stood in the doorway to his apartment wearing a blue cashmere sweater over tight black jeans and even blacker embossed ankle boots. She was holding a large box of pizza in one hand and a pack of beer in the other. He set the box he'd been holding down on the floor and stood to face her. "Hey, whatcha got there?"

"Pizza," she replied, lifting the box, "and beer. Mandatory moving food."

He waved her in and quirked an eyebrow in surprise. "From Joe's?" he asked and reached for the pizza box.

"A little birdy told me that it reminds you of home." Then she wrinkled her nose at him and said, "You smell."

Steve laughed and took an apologetic step back from her. "The elevator's broken and it's a five story walk-up. Worked up a sweat I guess."

"I guess you should take a shower then before we eat, yeah?"

"That bad?" He took a quick sniff underneath his shirt. "Yup. Gimme five, make yourself at home."

Natasha nodded and looked around the place. Boxes were strewn everywhere. Packing paper and various nicks and knacks were scattered in half-hazard piles all over the floor. There were no surfaces to speak of, except for the counters, and nothing to sit on. Natasha raised an eyebrow as Steve walked away. "Sure, I'll just put this… somewhere."

* * *

"You start eating without me?" he called from down the hall.

"Never!" Natasha exclaimed, sounding injured. "But you got about sixty seconds before I do."

Steve walked barefoot into the living area clad in a tight-fitting T-shirt and loose, rumpled gym pants. His hair was damp and stuck up at jagged angels, but it only served to make him more attractive than usual.

"Found my deodorant."

"Thank God. I like to enjoy the aroma of food with my food. Come sit." She patted the floor next her.

Steve took a seat and crossed his legs at the ankles. His stomach rumbled, _loudly_, and she smiled to herself. He plucked one of the beers from the case and inspected it as she opened the box.

She slid a hot slice of pizza onto a paper plate that was so small for the job that she really shouldn't have bothered at all, and handed it to Steve. He set the beer down and grunted his thanks before stuffing nearly a third of it into his mouth. She tried not to gape at him—_did the man have no manners?_—and instead picked up her own slice and took a bite.

"You're eatin' it wrong," Steve said around a mouthful of hot pizza. It was old school New York style, with fresh buffalo mozzarella, hand-crushed tomatoes, fresh oregano and Sopressata salami layered on a crust that was thin, crispy and chewy all in one bite; something closer to the version that Steve had probably eaten in the '40s. They sat on the floor eating with their backs against the wall-to-wall windows. The exposed brick beneath the windows was old and rough, and Natasha twisted around carefully so as not to snag her sweater.

"I'm sorry?" she asked.

"It's a New York slice."

"And?"

"And you gotta eat it like it's a slice. Not dainty little bites like you're afraid it's gonna eat _you_."

She noticed that his New York accent was getting thicker by the second. Sam was right, it did remind Steve of home. Steve must've taken her silent musings for something else, because he reached over and plucked her pizza from her fingers. "Hey!" Natasha exclaimed indignantly.

"Lemme show ya. So you take it like this, right? Put your index finger here in the middle of the crust and then fold the slice in half vertically. Okay? Here take it, watch out for the grease." He handed back her now folded pizza and she couldn't help glaring at him a little. She did not like people touching her food without her permission. Ever.

He picked up his own slice and then looked from Natasha to her pizza expectantly. "Now take a bite," Steve ordered, and followed suit by taking a gargantuan bite himself. "Mmm, the best," he moaned appreciatively. Though it sounded more like 'da bess.'

Natasha rolled her eyes. American's were so particular about how they ate their food. She took a bite and a jet of warm grease streamed down her chin. Natasha jerked her head back in alarm, she was about to ruin one of her favorite sweaters with pig drippings after all, and suddenly Steve's large palm was cupping her chin before a single drop could escape. His thump swept over her bottom lip and then down, brushing most of the grease off of her chin and into his cupped palm.

Their eyes met and she blinked at him. Steve quickly let go of her chin and hopped up from the floor. "Got paper towels around here somewhere." Without missing a beat, he slurped the grease from his palm and left her staring after him in surprise. _Well that was rather intimate_, she thought.

After rustling around in a few boxes, Steve padded back over with a wad of packing paper and handed her half. "Best I could do."

"That's okay, we can MacGyver it."

"Do what now?"

"Please buy a TV immediately."

"Too many channels, makes my head hurt. Besides, I'm really starting to enjoy the look you get on your face when you realize just how unhip I am. It makes me feel special."

Laughing, Natasha shook her head. "If you get any more special we'll have to call the short bus."

"See? Didn't get that either. Keep 'em comin Nat, I'm starting to feel warm inside." He smiled at her before taking another bite of pizza.

"Hey, let's try the beer," Natasha said. She set down her slice and offered him a bottle.

Steve unscrewed the cap and took a deep sniff. "That's smells a bit pungent. Have you tried this?"

"Special brew. No pun intended," she smirked. "From the laboratory of a Mr. Anthony E. Stark."

"Oh?"

"Yup, I helped myself to a case after Happy told me he was experimenting with Asgardian mead."

Steve nodded with interest. "Now if that's anything like the stuff Thor carries in his flask, then—"

"We're gonna see if we can get you drunk, Mr. Rogers."

"I doubt _that'll_ happen."

"Wanna bet?"

"Well, that depends on the bet," he replied.

"If you so much as get a little toasted, then you have to buy a brand new television for this lovely apartment—with a full cable package, mind you. But you have to be honest, like the Boy Scout I know you to be."

"And if nothing happens?"

Natasha paused in thought for a moment. Someone had once told her that if you were going to make a bet, then you'd better make it hurt. "Then I will go to a Yankees game with you."

Steve's normally stern features lit up like Christmas in July. "But you can't leave early; you've gotta stay for the entire game."

Natasha sighed. Why, exactly, was she still taking advice from masochists? "Fine, yes I will sit through all nineteen hours in the Seventh Inning of Hell with you."

"And we'll have to get regular seats, you can't get the same experience if you're in the private boxes."

Natasha rolled her eyes. What person in their right mind actually wanted to trade in plush seats, air-conditioning and free drinks for a hard bench and bad hot dogs? Oh why Steve, of course. "Alright, that's enough caveats. Regular seats and a full game. Do we have a deal, sir?"

Steve stuck out his hand for them to shake on it. "Deal."

* * *

Three and a half bottles and an hour later, Steve's chest felt tingly and pleasantly warm. The room was aglow with some sort of soft and pulsing ubiquitous golden light, which was quite nice if Steve Rogers had anything to say about it. He felt a deep sense of well-being, like the summer that he'd spent as a boy swaying in a hammock beneath the majestic oaks on his great-uncle's farm. Natasha was leaning against him, shoulder to shoulder, still nursing her second bottle. He couldn't seem to remember when that had happened, but that was just fine by him.

"Huh," he grunted.

"Hmm?" Natasha murmured and turned to face him. Lord, but she was beautiful. Her cheeks were a rosy pink from drinking and her emerald green eyes were just the tiniest bit unfocused.

"Gotta… hey I got—I got a pretty good, good buzz goin'."

"Oh yeah?" Natasha's lazy smile was triumphant.

"Yeah."

"You surprised?"

"Uh yeah, c'pletely."

"Ha, well cheers to that," she grinned and they clinked their bottles together.

* * *

"Help!" Natasha screamed. "Help me, I'm being depantsed!"

Steve clamped a hand over her mouth and then she bit him. "Ow! Will you stop screaming? You're gonna wake my neighbors, wake 'em all up!"

Natasha giggled, actually _giggled_. "You don't have neighbors, Steven. You have wall rats! No neighbors. Wait, will the rats help me? Help me rats!"

"_Shhh!_"

"But you're depantsing me. And that sounds wrong. That even a word?"

"That's 'cause you can't depants yourself. Ya fell over, 'member?"

Natasha giggled. "You're slurry, Steve. I mean _slurring_," she said more carefully. Steve paused in the act of tugging Natasha's jeans down over her hips and met her eyes. Then they both burst into another fit of uncontrollable laughter. That beer-mead concoction had really done a number on them. Together they'd polished off the pizza and the six pack, though admittedly, he'd had the majority of both.

Natasha never did like sleeping with her pants on, but unfortunately she was quite uncoordinated at the moment. Which was why she was lying flat on her back in the middle of his bed squirming and giggling, and not even _trying_ to assist him in "depantsing" her!

He flopped down beside her and yawned. "Mmm, tired."

"Me too, Steve. So let's get depantsed and get some sleeping."

"That your new favorite word?"

"Which one? I have a lotta words, Steve."

"'Depantsing.'"

"No Steve, you're my new favorite word! Now let's do this!"

Sitting back up took an effort. "I always hafta do all the heavy lifting," he grumbled, while Natasha continued giggling on his bed.


End file.
